I suddenly understood. “So if the parasite is spread through white matter, the frontal cortex—the puppet master—has to be covered with white matter for it to become infected. Or else the spores have no pathways to get to our brain’s control centers.”
“That’s right!” Dr. Chatterjee said. “Which means the thing that makes it harder for teenagers to formulate mature decisions is the same thing that saved you. And saved me.”
Suddenly I felt much younger than my fifteen years. There it was, tightening around my spinal cord, that same sensation I’d felt as a six-year-old waking up to Sheriff Blanton standing on our porch, shifting awkwardly from boot to boot, hat in his hands, bad news on his face. That feeling of bone-deep aloneness, as if I’d been set adrift, a boat left to navigate across the rocky slate of the ocean. If what Dr. Chatterjee was saying was true, then the people least equipped to make good decisions were the only ones around Creek’s Cause left to make them.
Like me.
But Patrick was still focused on Chatterjee. “Why’d it save you?”
“Do you know what causes multiple sclerosis?” Chatterjee asked.
We all shook our heads.
“White-matter lesions.” He smiled. “I have enough holes in my brain that the parasite couldn’t take me over either.” Turning, he started back up the hallway, wobbling past the cracked-porcelain bank of water fountains. I hurried to keep up, Cassius scampering along at my side. With his big strides, Patrick had no problem regaining the lead.
“Your weakness is your strength,” Patrick said.
“That’s right, Patrick,” Chatterjee agreed. Then he looked at us all. “Just like your weakness is yours. As Alex said, you’re willing to take risks. Now you’ll have plenty of opportunity to do so.”
I thought of Eddie Lu out there wandering around the Dumpsters in his beanie and apron. “Wait,” I said. “But this means … as we get older…”
Chatterjee’s eyes moistened behind his round glasses. “If the spores are still in the air, yes.”
“What?” JoJo asked. “What’s that mean?”
“It means we’ll turn into them,” Rocky said angrily, waving a hand at the wall and the Hosts beyond.
It took a moment for the realization to work its way across JoJo’s face, and then her forehead furrowed and she started crying. I wanted to comfort her, but the shock was still ringing through me, too. Of all of us, she’d be safe the longest. I’d get there well before her, the white matter spreading through my brain until one day it hit a tipping point. One more cell would grow, bridging some microscopic connection—just enough to allow the parasite to reach its nasty little claws around my frontal cortex, encasing it and taking me over.
But first I’d lose Patrick.
And Alex.
It was like life had always been, I guess, but accelerated. Aging brings us closer to death—any idiot knows that. I’d just always thought I’d have a longer runway. I was fifteen, sure, but at times I still felt like I was just a kid. Even if the future laid out before me wasn’t glamorous or grand, it still always seemed to stretch out, decade after decade, farther than I could see. I didn’t want the end of the road to be visible. Not yet.
I pictured having to watch that death shudder hit Patrick. And alter him. My big brother, my rock, the most solid thing I’d ever known.
And that was only if we got lucky. If the Hosts didn’t take him first. Or me.
JoJo’s cries grew louder.
Patrick said, “We gotta be quiet. We don’t know who’s in here.”
JoJo crammed Bunny’s ear into her mouth and chewed on the ragged tip.
“Don’t worry,” Chatterjee said, ambling ahead of us past the glass trophy cabinet toward the gymnasium. “We’ve checked the entire school. It’s secure.”
“Who’s we?” Patrick said.
Dr. Chatterjee struck the double doors with the heels of his hands, and Alex gave a little gulp of shock. We froze at the threshold. Dozens of sets of eyes stared back at us.
Huddled in groups across the bleachers and the basketball court were about half the kids of Creek’s Cause.
The others who had made it.
ENTRY 13